The Godswood
by soulwriterchick
Summary: He invades her sanctuary. And for some reason, she lets him stay. Prologue can be read as a one-shot.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Winterfell…

He was a rough man, by birth and by choice. So he did not understand why he could not stop looking at her. The day was crisp and clear, and the courtyard was teeming with life. She had flowers braided in her hair today. Little blue flowers in hair the color of fire. Though she had never truly looked at him, he knew the flowers matched her eyes.

"I see you watching my betrothed, Hound," Joffrey said, leaning on the wooden railing beside him. "Isn't she a beauty beyond compare? The future king of the Seven Kingdoms deserves such a wife by his side."

The Hound looked to her again. She had caught them watching her and now her cheeks were stained pink with excitement. She leaned in to whisper something in her friend's ear and they both began giggling.

He snorted. "Aye, she is fair enough," he said. "But she looks like she hasn't a thought in that pretty head of hers."

Joffrey thought to look affronted. "When she is my queen you will be careful not to call her stupid, Hound. But then I don't need my woman always talking back and questioning me. She must be sweet and obedient. I mean to be a different ruler from my father."

But Sandor was no longer listening to him. The pretty little girl with flowers in her hair was walking away. The sun at that moment disappeared behind the clouds, but it seemed to him it was her absence that made the day darker.

Kings Landing…

He was a brutal man, but he had to admit even he would not have demanded this of anyone.

"This one is your father," Joffrey said. "This one here. Dog, turn it around so she can see him."

He walked forward to do what was asked of him. Her blue eyes followed him, shinning with shed and unshed tears, and pleading. He took hold of the head of that which had been Eddard Stark and turned it around.

Her body trembled and he thought she would break then. That she would rave and wail or, worse yet, that she would faint. But slowly she seemed to gather something inside her. She looked at it now, finally, her eyes blank. "How long do I have to look?" she asked.

Sandor watched her gravely. If truth be told he was always watching her. Since the very first time he caught sight of the red of her hair from the corner of his eye upon arriving at Winterfell. And he was watching now when something changed in her. A shifting of features, a hardening of her eyes. When Joffrey asked her how she would like her brother's head for a gift she actually snapped back. "Maybe my brother will give me your head," she hissed.

Before her father's death she had always seemed a pretty, flighty, empty thing. Nowadays she was not half as pretty as she once had been. Her skin was pale and dry, her hair dull and brittle, and her lips chapped. She had lost so much weight that her dresses looked ill-fitting, like they were made for some other girl. But today, just for that brief moment, just before Merryn's gauntleted fist struck her, she was the most fiercely beautiful thing he had seen in his life.

And Sandor Clegane, rough and brutal as he was, had an eye for beautiful things. Though they would all laugh at him if they knew it, though he would not admit so even to himself.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One  
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She sucked her tender lower lip and winced at the pain. Ser Merryn had hit her again today. She did not know why she kept saying things to anger Joff, why she could not keep her thoughts to herself. She was a good girl, an obedient girl. She should know better.

The Hound had pulled her to her feet yet again after Joff and the others left. This time he had said nothing. No advice on how she should save herself some trouble and give Joff what he wanted. He had simply walked away, leaving her alone in the courtyard.

She had watched his retreating back, his flowing white cloak, and dark hair. It wounded more than she expected that he did not even acknowledge her this time, did not even try to wipe away the salty blood leaking into her mouth. Was even the Hound coming to think of Joff punishing her as something common, something routine?

She raised her chin to look at the heart tree of Kings Landing. It was a gnarled old oak, tall and with weary twisted limbs stretching high into the sky. But it had no face, and she missed the wise, sad old weirwood of Winterfell.

Her Florian was sitting on the ground beside her, playing with a lock of her long hair. "Ser Dontos, please tell me when we can leave this place," she said to him. "I do not know how much longer I can take this."

"Do not give up hope, my sweet lady! Be brave for me. Now is not the time, but soon." He picked up her limp hand from her lap and kissed it. It was a moist kiss and she thought she felt a hint of his tongue on her skin, but she kept her face still. He suddenly dropped her hand and looked to the side.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Hush, my lady," he said. "There is someone here."

She stood up slowly, listening. Ser Dontos had moved close to her and had placed his arm around her waist. She could hear his ragged breathing, could smell the sour stench of his breath and his sweat. She kept her own breathing steady and then she finally heard it. A splashing of water.

"Someone is taking a swim to cool off, Ser Dontos," she said, pushing him away from her gently. "There was no need to frighten me so." The past week had been the hottest she had experienced in her young life. Even at night she twisted and turned in her bed. Sometimes she awoke with her sheets tangling her limbs, suffocating her, making her scream in anguish and despair for the crisp nights of Winterfell.

Ser Dontos sniffed and looked left and right, his eyes anxious. "We should go see who it is. We may not be able to meet here again after today."

Through the tangled growth they made their way towards the back of the godswood where a small clear pool lay hidden. Sansa liked to soak her feet in the cool water now and then as she practiced singing her songs. She had not been there for weeks now but it still saddened her that someone else had discovered her secret place.

Together they peered through the thickets and saw clothing strewn beside the pond. A snowy white cloak was thrown carelessly upon soot grey armor. But it was not until she saw his dark hair and shoulders rise out of the water did she begin to panic. "Ser Dontos," she whispered urgently. "You have to leave. The Hound cannot find us here together."

"Farewell my sweet lady," said her Florian, in a jittery haste to leave. "I will try to send you a message soon."

She watched the fat knight leave, nay, run away, and pondered her fate sadly. Then she thought of what to do. She was loath to return to her rooms when she could spend an hour or two in the godswood.

_Perhaps the Hound will leave soon and I can come out of hiding. _

She peered back towards the pond but he was no longer there. She gasped when she felt a hand clamp onto her arm and roughly turn her around.

The Hound, dripping and shirtless and with a naked sword in his hand, looked her up and down slowly. There was anger in his eyes even as his mouth twisted into a mockery of a grin. "Enjoying the view, little bird?" he asked. "You didn't have to hide like a thief. I would freely let you look your fill, all you had to do was ask."

"No I… I'm sorry, my lord," she said, averting her gaze from his bare chest. He could be so awful sometimes! "I did not mean to watch. And I did not see anything! I was just waiting for you to leave."

"Waiting for me to leave?" he asked, his voice low and throaty. And drunken, she realized. His grip on her arm tightened and he pulled her closer. "Why? There's enough room in there for the both of us."

She looked at him, carefully making sure to look at his whole face. The water had plastered his hair to his scalp and there was no hiding the ruin of his features. But now the look in his eyes was different from anger, and she was not frightened.

"I am sure the king would not appreciate you speaking to me thus, my lord. And please let me go. You're hurting me."

He shoved her away from him as if she had scalded him. He sheathed his sword and looked down at her, his face sullen. "You shouldn't be out here alone, little bird," he said. "Thanks to the Imp there are all sorts of unsavory buggers crawling over the Red Keep. I'll have them post a guard on you when I get back."

"No," she said, following him back to the pond where his things were. "Please, ser. My lord. Please don't tell them. This is the only place I can be by myself, only place I can be at peace. If King Joffrey finds out about it, he will take it from me. "

She knew she was begging, and she was in truth embarrassed by the tears that came unbidden to her eyes so easily nowadays. But she could not lose the godswood. She was a daughter of Winterfell, and prayer did not come to her easily in a sept.

His grey eyes followed a tear down her cheek, and then paused to look at her split lip. "Alright, little bird," he rasped. "I'll tell no one. But I hope you are prepared to pay the price for my silence."


	3. Chapter Two

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in updating. I'm suffering from major writer's block right now so the next update might be a long time coming. You have no idea how long I agonized over this chapter. :( For this story I have aged up Sansa. (Dun dun dun!) I am also going to deviate quite a bit from canon ACoK so don't freak out.

**Chapter Two**

Standing beside the iron throne Sandor scanned the crowd again. No sign of her. He returned his attention to the king and the peasant kneeling before him. The man was crying pitifully, his tears and snot running down his dirty face into a scraggly beard.

Sandor eyed him with vague contempt. Grown men simply should not cry.

"What are you weeping about?" Joffrey asked, annoyed. "You should be happy you are being of some use to me."

The man looked momentarily confused. "But your grace you have taken all my stores, all my crops to feed your goldcloaks. Come winter my children, my pregnant wife, will starve."

Joffrey sneered. "What is this, Lord Varys? Why am I being made to listen to such trivial matters? Get him out of my sight!"

The peasant got to his feet slowly. Sandor watched him. There was something about the man that did not sit right with Sandor. Something in the stiff way he now held his shoulders compared to before. When he caught the glint of something in the man's hand Sandor stepped forward, pushing his white cloak back so it fanned around him for a moment and blocked Joffrey's view. He sauntered ahead and took hold of the peasant's shirt. He dragged him upwards so they were face to face, so that his long dark hair fell into the peasant's eyes.

"I would tuck that knife back into my sleeve if I were you," he rasped, low enough so no one else heard.

Joffrey's shrill laughter echoed in the room. "What are you doing, Dog? I didn't say you should frighten him to death. I don't want him wetting his breeches in my throne room. Just get him out of here."

"As you command, your grace," he said, starting to drag the unwilling man away.

"My children!" the man howled to the room at large, his eyes wild and unseeing. "My children will starve!"

"Shut your fucking mouth or I will slit your throat right here," Sandor said loudly, his voice harsh and carrying. "And when I am done with you I will find your wife and children and do worse to them. Then none of you will have to starve to death."

The man went limp then, the fight leaving him.

As Sandor led the peasant away he finally saw her. She was standing by the door, her slim form clad in green silk. When he met her terrified gaze she looked away quickly, pressing a hand to her chest as if to still her heart.

He felt the familiar bubbling of hot rage within his chest, the one that build each time she turned away from him. "Move!" he barked at the peasant, pushing him forward.

"May the gods save you," she whispered as they passed her by.

Sandor wondered if the prayer was for the peasant. Or for him.

* * *

><p>She squinted and pushed back the hair sticking to her forehead with perspiration. It was almost evenfall before she decided to brave the heat and make her way towards the godswood. But when she stepped outside she found it was cooler than in had been in the castle. A gentle breeze stirred her skirts as she made her way across the courtyard.<p>

Several knights were lounging under the shade of a tree and drinking from mugs of ale. Some of them looked her way and she nodded and smiled at them. One gave her a curt nod but the others simply averted their gazes.

Sansa looked to the ground, plodding ahead.

That was how things usually were nowadays. So different from before. Back when they had always stared at her, their gazes fixed on her as she walked by them and went about her day. Though she was young she had known when men watched her. At some level she had even reveled in it.

_But no one looks at me now_, she thought, smoothing her hair subconsciously. _Not the knights, not even Joffrey. It is because I am not pretty any more. _

Her father's and septa's deaths and sister's disappearance had taken a toll on her. Plagued with frequent nausea she could barely get herself to eat. Her Lannister maids gave her cream and honey every morning to help her regain weight, and Maester Pycelle made her disgusting potions to drink at night. Still she seemed to lose more and more weight.

She touched her fingers to her face, to the tender skin under her eyes and the space between her fine eyebrows. Grief had etched lines into her face. She was not yet sixteen.

_Only Ser Dontos, my homely Florian, looks at me now_, she thought.

This was not strictly true. There was the Hound, of course. The Hound still watched her, but it was not the same as other men had watched her. When he was sober there always seemed to be anger in his eyes, as if he were accusing her of some terrible crime she could not remember committing.

When he was drunk he was different. She recalled the times when she had been unlucky enough to cross his path at night. On those occasions he had pulled her aside, he had pinched her chin painfully and made her look at him. His sullen eyes had roamed her face, searching for what she could not say.

Entering the godswood she was startled to find him there. He was sitting on a fallen log, diligently scraping a whetstone across his massive two-handed sword. He had shed his armor for the day so only a rough gray tunic stretched across his muscled back.

Her first impulse was to stop in her tracks, turn around, and run back to her rooms. Though he had never hurt her, the way he had threatened the peasant today had indeed frightened her.

But Sansa just stood a little away from him, hesitating, watching him. He had not noticed her yet so she wondered if she should say something. She walked closer to him and fidgeted. Surely now he could see the skirts of her dress?

Scrape scrape scrape.

She bit her lip and made to turn away. He laughed then, a soft rumbling laugh. "I know you're here. I could hear you coming from a mile away. For a little bird you make as much noise as a lumbering horse."

Sansa blinked, unsure of what she should make of that. "Then why did you not say something?"

No reply. He tilted his sword edgewise and examined it. "Do what you have to do, little bird," he rasped. "I'll not bother you."

He began working on the other edge.

Scrape scrape scrape.

* * *

><p>What was he doing here? Waiting, sitting on a damp tree trunk without even a skin of sour wine to keep him company? He snorted at his own foolishness and pulled out a whetstone from his pocket. He was slowly scraping it across his already sharp sword when she finally arrived.<p>

He knew it was the little bird even though he did not look up. Even when she stood before him expectantly and he could see her small feet peeking out from beneath her dress, could smell the sweet lilac scent of her skin rise above the earthy smells of the godswood, he honed his sword.

"I'll not bother you," he told her.

She was such a miserable thing. A stupid little caged bird, her once bright feathers dull and tattered.

He hated himself for wanting her despite it.

He knew he had frightened her yesterday with his words. In truth he had been drunk and having her so near him while he was half naked had annoyed him as much as it had heated his blood. What price could he possibly exact form her? Not only was she a mere child she was his future queen. She would not always be as innocent and as powerless as she was today.

And yet he had come anyway, thinking to protect her from the strange men roaming the keep. He had thought to guard her in silence as he usually guarded Joffrey.

But his eyes strayed to her eventually, inevitably. She was kneeling before the heart tree. A soft breeze ruffled her hair as warm rays of evening sunlight filtered through the leafy canopy above them.

Sandor gripped his sword pommel till his knuckles turned white.

Sometimes, when the sunlight touched her fiery hair like that, it was almost painful to look at. She was almost painful to look at.

* * *

><p>Sansa inhaled a trembling breath. The Hound was staring right at her now. She had not before realized how vast and secluded the clearing in the godswood was, how alone she was here. The silence pressed in on her and she could hear the slow thudding of her heart.<p>

She had to walk by him to leave. Something came over her, causing her to pause before him. Pushing a strand of hair behind her ear she spoke without meeting his eyes. "Why did you have to frighten that poor man so?" she said. "He was only worried for his family, and winter is coming."

"Winter is coming?" he countered, his expression one of sardonic amusement. "Very rarely do you sound like a Stark, girl." He stood slowly and sheathed his sword. "You are a stupid bird indeed if you have to ask me. Tell me what you think King Joffrey would have done if I let that bugger go on wailing about his starving brats?"

Her eyes widened with understanding. The Hound had made threats, but Joffrey would have commanded action.

He sneered at her. "Don't look at me like that. Like I'm some fucking knight from your songs. The chore of finding the starvelings and running them through would have fallen to me. And I have better things to do with my time."

She blinked and looked away. It was a while before she spoke. "I will be here again tomorrow, my lord," she said, her voice soft. "At the same time."

He gave a bark of laughter "Same time, little bird? Too courteous to keep me waiting are you? And what makes you think I will be here tomorrow when I could be at a tavern with cool wine in my belly and a warm whore on my lap?"

"I don't know, se-… My lord," she said. She started hurrying away from him. Despite all she had been through, his coarse speech never failed in bringing a blush to her cheeks.

"Will you not ask me, little bird?" he called out to her.

She stopped. "Ask you what, my lord?"

"I am lord of nothing, _my_ _lady_," he taunted. "Call me Hound or Dog and be done with it. Will you not ask me the price for my silence?" He looked around the clearing as if appraising it. "This is a nice prime spot. If you aren't too keen on it I could suggest this as a good place for His Grace's target practice."

"No, please," she said, biting her lip. She thought of the animals Joffrey liked to torture and kill. The godswood was a holy place. Innocent blood should not be shed here. "I have some jewelry, and a few dragons saved."

He snorted. "Keep your baubles. And I managed to win more gold than I'll ever need at the Hand's tourney."

"Then what is it you want… Hound."

"There are many things I want, little bird," he rasped, his face acquiring a pained look. "The true question is: what do I want from you?"

She waited for him to continue, but he said nothing. _I know one thing you want. I know you want your brother dead_, she wanted to say. To remind him that she kept his secret and he should keep hers. But she was afraid of how he would react to that. So she held her silence, and for a long time so did he. He stood there, looking towards the heart tree, a slight breeze blowing his soft black hair away from his horrible face.

"You Northerners are strange people," he said after a while. "What do you hope to gain from praying to an oak tree? Acorns?" He turned his steely gaze back to her. "Be here on time tomorrow then. Or I'll have to come get you."

* * *

><p>He followed a few paces behind her, watching the sway and twitch of her green silk skirts. She was walking fast today.<p>

_In a hurry to get away from me, I suppose._

The light was fading fast and after returning her to her rooms he would need to take up his shift guarding Joffrey's door. But first he would make his way to the kitchens for some wine. He was much too sober for his liking right now.

"Good night, my… Hound," she said to him before slowly pulling her door shut.

He stood for a moment, looking at the cracking varnish on her door. Then he shook his head and went to find his wine.

Ser Meryn was leaning against the wall outside Joffrey's door. He was one of the few men Sandor had seen able to fall asleep standing up. Sandor watched him for a few moments until he woke and stood himself straight.

"You're late," Meryn said, scowling up at him.

"Am I indeed?" asked Sandor, grinning crookedly. "Could be I've been standing here for some time while you snored like a boar."

Meryn ignored that. "And drunk. Again. Can you not hold off getting pissed drunk for when you don't have guard duty?"

"It takes more than a cup of wine to get me drunk. And even drunk I could cut your head off as easily as I could sneeze. Especially when you're asleep. Now bugger off and leave me to it."

After Meryn walked away the door creaked open and Sandor saw his king's head stick out. "Oh good," Joffrey said. "You're here."

"Aye, I am," Sandor agreed.

"Come in I want to talk to you." Joffrey opened the door wider. "Sit," he ordered, gesturing towards the seating area where a table with wine and cheese was set.

Sandor poured himself some wine. Just one more cup wouldn't hurt.

"Do you like it?" Joffrey asked, helping himself to some of the wine. "I had two dozen casks imported from Dorne."

It was a strong wine but cloyingly sweet. "Good enough," he replied.

"I have a gift for you." Joffrey said, handing Sandor a small wooden box. "Go on. Open it."

It was a jeweled brooch.

"Just like your helm," Joffrey said, pleased with himself.

Sandor looked at it. Yes, the color of the stones was grey, but the shape of the dog's head resembled a direwolf more. "Thank you, your grace," he finally said, careful to keep his voice neutral.

Joffrey plopped himself on the other chair and reached out for an apple. "For your nameday I'll have you new armor made. And a new sword. The king's Dog should look the part, don't you think?"

"You are too kind, your grace," Sandor rasped.

Joffrey waved away the thanks. He bit into his apple and chewed thoughtfully. "Hound, tell me about fucking."

Sandor was too used to Joffrey to be startled by the question that seemed to come out of nowhere. The boy had an inherent inquisitiveness to him and had posed many questions to his bodyguard over the years. Although the nature of his curiosity was often sadistic. The pregnant kitchen cat whose belly Joffrey had sliced open came to mind.

"There's little enough to tell," Sandor said, balancing the box upon his knee. "You find a willing whore and push your cock inside her untill you're done."

Joffrey giggled. "Willing, you say? And what if the woman is not a whore."

Sandor watched the boy's face and felt himself grow cold. "Aye, willing. No point risking otherwise. She could have something sharp hidden somewhere within her skirts."

Joffrey laughed. "But that is something you would have to worry about, Hound, not I. What with your face."

"Aye," Sandor agreed solemnly. "What with my face." He moved the box left and right, watching as the grey-blue stones of the direwolf glinted in the firelight.


	4. Chapter Three

Author's note: thanks to the lovely reviews cheering me on, I am back way before I expected! This and the next chapter are mostly setting the stage for what is to come. And I fear this fic is going to be much longer than I had originally planned. Le sigh. It is still PG for now, but sexytimes will assuredly happen in the goodness of time. :P

**Chapter Three  
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Joffrey was being strange nowadays. Staring at her in a way that made her feel naked and vulnerable. He kept asking his mother when they would be married, but the queen kept stalling.

Sansa watched them argue but she dared not let the flutter of hope warm her heart. She dared not think that the queen had changed her mind. That she would no longer have to marry a Lannister. Each time she looked at Joffrey's face he made her sick. His smooth skin, soft lips, and gleaming green eyes. Once her dream, he was now what her nightmares were made of.

She did not know what she would do if she were made to share his bed.

Her days passed by achingly slow. Surrounded by people she hated, feared, or felt nothing for, she felt almost like a ghost. Flitting about all day, barely talking, barely being acknowledged. Tommen and Myrcella were sweet children, but they were just that: children. They did not understand why she would not play with them. Lannister children, golden and delicately beautiful, they did not understand that their laughter and joy made her burn inside with terrible emotions she would rather not admit.

After each day, empty, alone, and exhausted, she would make her way to the godswood. And there he would be waiting for her without fail.

Sansa could not fathom what he was doing here. Perhaps the first day she found him on his log she could have asked him, but now the chance for explanation seemed to have passed them by. The Hound did not offer much in terms of dialog either. It seemed not his nature to fill the air with empty words, and she was much too timid to initiate conversation on her own. Some days his only reply to her greeting was a grunt and a curt nod. Mostly he worked on his sword as she prayed. Sharpening it, polishing it, the constant _scrape, scrape, scrape_ driving her mad some days and other days soothing her tired mind.

Once she came to the godswood to find the Hound's kingsguard cloak tossed aside like worthless linen over the log he liked to sit upon, but he was nowhere in sight. She regarding it. When she had first come to Kings Landing that piece of wool had been the ultimate in honor and gallantry to her. How young she had been then.

Chewing her lip in just that way she used to scold Arya about, she walked towards the back of the godswood. She made sure he was decently submerged in the pool before stepping into the clearing.

His grey eyes opened to peer at her.

"Good evening, Hound," she said, ducking her head in greeting.

"I won't ask you to join me or you'll threaten to tell His Grace again," he rasped. His muscled arms were splayed out, holding him above the water, and his head was tilted back. "Your loss little bird," he said, shutting his eyes again. "It's always unbearably hot before a long winter. Bad enough for us southron folks, but your northern bones must be melting."

His face was so different like this. With his eyes closed and his face calm, he looked years younger. "How many winters have you seen, Hound?" she found herself asking.

He snorted. "Is that your way of asking my age, girl? How old do you think I am?

She measured him. He was very old, but not quite as old as her father. "Thirty?" she asked.

"Close enough," he rasped.

She watched his relaxed face and felt the unworthy tug of jealousy. If he was not here she could have bathed in the pool herself. "How did you discover this place, Hound?"

"A whore brought me here."

"You brought a whore to the godswood?" she asked, the shock pulling her out of her reverie.

"Are you deaf now?" he asked. "I said the whore brought me here."

"Hm," she said doubtfully. "Well, I am going back to pray now."

"Give my regards to your acorn tree, little bird."

* * *

><p>He listened to her retreating footsteps. His eyes were open now, though he saw very little. The cool water had lulled him, and he had been halfway asleep before she arrived. Suspended in that murky place between dream and wakefulness, he had been thinking of her.<p>

It was not a lewd day-dream, though the Stranger knew he had plenty of those about her too.

In this dream she was fully clothed, and she was standing in a room full of golden sunlight, looking out the window as if waiting for someone. His dream-self stood still for a moment, soaking in the vision. Memorizing how the burnished curls of her auburn hair fell thick and gleaming down her back. When he opened the door wider it creaked, and she turned to look at him. She was older, her face more angular, and so lovely it took his breath away. Even more so when it split into a radiant smile, different from any false and forced smile he had seen on her before.

When he returned to reality she was standing before him, her young face downcast, tired, and pale. He teased her even as he shut his eyes against her present image, trying to grasp the threads of his dream. Would she ever grow into the woman he had seen? He rather thought she would, if the world would let her.

He did not bother wondering if she would ever look at him as she did in the dream, though. That was mere fantasy.


	5. Chapter Four

Author's note: Remember, fanfic authors get payed only in the form of reviews. :)**  
><strong>

**Chapter Four  
><strong>

"Look at this," Joffrey said. Sansa looked. It was a blade like she had never seen before. Gleaming and curved with a lacquered green handle.

"It is very beautiful, your grace," she said.

"Beautiful? Is that all you can see? This is a Dothraki arakh, and it is the perfect blade to use while on horseback." He swung the blade back and forth, testing it. "The steel is not Valyrian, but it holds its edge well enough." He swung the arakh towards her neck and paused just before it touched her. He then slowly brought the blade to her throat, scraping it down her neck.

Sansa flinched at first but then held herself still. She looked into his shining jade eyes. His pupils were dilated and his mouth was parted. He was breathing as audibly as she was, but she did not think it was because of fear on his part.

"Maybe I'll use this on your brother when we meet in battle," he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over her ear.

Sansa said nothing. There was no point in dissenting any more, was there? Ser Dontos never did send her a message, never did try to meet her again. She closed her eyes and told herself to stand still.

_It will be over_, she thought. _One day, it will all be over._

Someone cleared their throat, breaking the silence and causing her to jerk. The blade nicked her and she gasped at the pain.

"You stupid girl," Joffrey said, annoyed. "I could have killed you." He threw the blade aside so it clattered against the wall.

"I am sorry, your grace," she said, rubbing her throat. The blade had merely scratched her.

It was the Hound. He was leaning against the door watching them, his expression almost bored. When had he come in? "That blade will only be of use if the Young Wolf forgets to put on armor," he rasped. "You are better off with a longsword. Steel that can pierce armor and cut through a man's heart." He looked Joffrey up and down. "When you are strong enough to wield it, of course."

Joffrey bristled. He was sensitive about his build. Though he was a few months her elder she was now taller than he by many inches. Nowadays she found herself bowing her neck so she would not have to look down at him.

"I will be strong enough one day," Joffrey said. "And one day I will wield my father's warhammer and defeat you in the training grounds."

The Hound smirked. "Aye, your grace. Perhaps one day you will. But not today. The queen wants you."

Joffrey looked annoyed. "Ugh I hope the small council is not with her. They bore me to tears." Before leaving he stopped to look at the Hound. "Where is the brooch I gave you?"

The Hound's cloak was fastened with his usual tarnished silver pin. "I'm saving it for special occasions, your grace."

"Hm," Joffrey said, sauntering out.

The Hound fell in step with her as she started making her way towards her rooms. Sansa looked up at him.

"Hound…" she began. She bit her lip and thought how to phrase her words.

"What is it, little bird?" he rasped. "Spit it out."

"I will not make it to the godswood today."

He did not speak, but the expression on his face made her elaborate. "I am unwell," she blurted out.

He stopped walking. "You look well enough to me," he said.

"No I… I have pains. Women's troubles. I was abed but Joffrey insisted on showing me his new blade."

He laughed. "To call them women's troubles you have to be a woman, girl," he said, grinning at her. "Stop pouting at me. Run along to your bed now. Your tree will live one day without your prayers."

* * *

><p>The <em>Goathead Tavern<em> in Flea Bottom was crowded as always. Sandor ordered his meal and wine and made his way towards the back corner of the room. After a few threatening glares the occupants of his usual table crept away, and Sandor sat with his back to the wall.

When his food arrived Sandor muttered his thanks and paid for it. He looked down at his bowl of watery, lumpy stew. Stirring it found him a few small pieces of meat and a few more of turnip. As he was accustomed to eating his meals at the keep he had almost forgotten that the rest of Kings Landing was rationing its fare.

"I haven't seen you for a long while, Hound," said a low husky voice from above him. "Where have you been hiding yourself?"

"Tara," he said in lieu of a greeting. He spooned some stew into his mouth and chewed. He was a rough man in most ways but he liked to eat his food slowly, thoughtfully. "A man my size doesn't really hide," he rasped.

"Truly? It looks to me like you're hiding right now." She reached out and pushed the hair away from his burnt face. She sat down before him, propping her chin up on her fist. "So is it the King keeping you so busy?" she asked.

"Aye, the king," he replied. Sandor looked at her as he broke more bread. She was wearing paint on her lips and kohl around her eyes, but there was no hiding the lines on her face or the strands of grey in her hair. She was still a handsome woman though. And although she took his coin he was as pleased today as he had been the first time she had approached him.

She smiled at him, that secret sort of smile she had. As if she knew the thoughts flitting through his mind. "I saw you the other day, when the King and his people were visiting the Great Sept. You looked very fine in your kingsgaurd cloak. Where is it now?"

"Being laundered again. The damned thing soaks mud and dust like nothing else."

She laughed. "I had never thought of that," she admitted. "The King is very handsome. And the girl with him, the one with the red hair, is she his betrothed?"

He gave a curt nod in reply.

Tara sighed. "Such a lovely girl. Hair like that is not common. Not naturally anyway. They will have such beautiful children."

He looked at her, into her obsidian eyes, crinkled at the corners with age and laughter. Beauty. All this obsession with beauty and beautiful things. How pathetic they were, people like Tara and he, to place such value to it.

She watched him eat for a while. "Will you come upstairs today?" she finally asked, trying but failing to keep the desperation from her voice.

Times were difficult, Sandor knew, especially for an aging whore like Tara. And Stranger knew he was tempted. "Not tonight," he instead said. He did not know when he had made the decision, but he would be going to the godswood anyway, just in case the little bird changed her mind.

Before leaving he slipped several dragons Tara's way. For old time's sake.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter 5**

On the Hound's nameday Joffrey presented him with a new sword and armor. He accepted the present with enough grace, kneeling before his king and muttering thanks. But, though Sansa looked for it, there was no joy in his face.

When she got there he was sprawled with his back against the heart tree. His new armor and two empty skins of wine were tossed to the side while he clutched a full skin in one large hand. She thought he was asleep but he cracked an eye to look at her.

"You're late," he rasped.

"Good evening, Hound," she said, settling herself on the ground before him and the heart tree. "I am not late. You were early because Joffrey let you take the day off for your nameday."

He laughed softly. "Aye, you must be right. Just seems I've been waiting for you forever." He steadied himself against the tree and stood up. "Let me get out of your way so you can pray for acorns."

Sansa bristled as she did each time he spoke of acorns, but she pressed her lips together. A lady did not rise to such bait.

She expected him to make his way back to his log so she was surprised when he lowered himself on the ground next to her. He brought out his whetstone and his sword and began his routine of fixing its nicks and shining it.

The noise of him working was so much louder now that he was sitting right there that she found she could not concentrate on prayer. She watched him instead. His eyes were downcast and his hair was falling in his face. His large hand moved across the blade smoothly, deliberately, almost lovingly.

Sansa noticed the worn leather strap on the hilt and the tarnished steel. "Hound," she asked, "where is your new sword?"

He snorted. "The King has gifted me with an ornamental sword. It is frippery, garbage. This sword," he lifted it by the hilt to show her, "this is the sword that I used to kill my first man, the sword that showed me through my first battle. The sword that has cut through men and women and children like they were hot butter." He lowered his voice. "And when it comes to it, this is what I'll use to slice through your Northmen. Maybe even your kingly brother, if he is unlucky enough."

She looked back to the heart tree, dread filling her and making her sick. "Do not speak of killing here," she begged softly.

He laughed a scornful laugh. "Why not? Will your bloody tree hear me? And will it rise up and shower me with a mountain of acorns? It didn't save your noble father, it does nothing to save you from the King, so I doubt it will rouse itself for me."

Tears came to her eyes. For so many days she had come here and taken a strange comfort in his hulking presence near here. But he had to go get drunk. He had to ruin everything. "I cannot be around you when you are like this," she said.

She rose to leave, but he reached out and took hold of her wrist.

"Little bird," he rasped. "It is my nameday. And today I will exact my price from you."

"What price?" she asked, tugging feebly on her wrist.

"Forgotten already? Little birds seem to remember nothing but the words to their songs. The price for my silence. From the day I found you here with that bugger Dontos."

Her eyes widened and she wrenched her wrist free, scrambling to stand up. "You knew!" she accused. "You knew I was here with him."

"Aye. I had a few words with him before coming to find you. Why do you think he's been avoiding you like the grey plague." He sneered at her. "You are a greater fool than he for placing your fate in his hands. He was likely to have both your heads on spikes before long."

Anger flashed through her with such force it made her dizzy. "It was you," she said. It was because of him Ser Dontos no longer spoke to her, no longer worked on a plan for their escape. She crossed her arms across her chest, hugging herself tightly, bitter tears flowing down her cheeks. All these days she sat here with him, been courteous to him, and he had ruined her hopes. "Then whose hands should I place my fate in, Hound?" she asked. "There is no one else."

His face was sullen, and the muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. "That is your problem, little bird. Not mine. Just make sure the next man you lead by the cock actually has balls enough to protect you."

Sansa was young, but she had brothers and understood the meaning of his words. "How dare you? I never… I never _seduced_ Ser Dontos."

"Oh really?" he asked, his voice dripping with derision. "So it is not you Dontos speaks of when he is pissed drunk? It is not you whose lips taste like honey, whose skin tastes like peaches, and whose hair is silk? I was mistaken then. It was some other Lady Stark he spoke of. Your lady mother perhaps."

She clenched her hands into fists, so hard that her nails bit into her flesh.

His laughed softly. "You want to hit me, don't you? Well hit me all you want, little bird. To a man who's been burned all other pain is slight." He stood up, towering over her. His eyes roamed her face in that way of his. "But I will exact my price from you," he rasped, low and throaty. "I have held off long enough."

She held out her hands weakly to keep him from advancing to her. "Everyone wants something from me. Joffrey, the queen, you. What is it you want from me? What? I have nothing."

"Stop crying," he said, tugging on her arm and drawing closer to her. "I only want what you have already given freely to that fool. A kiss."

"A kiss?" she asked, wiping the tears off her hot cheeks. "And after that you will leave me alone? That… that is not too much."

He snorted. "For you, mayhaps. Since you give your kisses away so freely. But leaving you alone was not part of the bargain."

She inhaled a sharp breath and her heart thumped dully in her chest. Sansa realized she had never stood so near him before today. His eyes were a grey flecked with bits of green and so piercing she had to close her own eyes against them.

She tilted her head back – it would be over soon – and waited.

And waited.

When she opened her eyes again to peer at him his face was twisted in a grin. He laughed. "By the Stranger, girl, you make it look as if you actually want to be kissed. But I never said it was I who would kiss you. I want you to kiss me."

If anything she was even more alarmed by this. "Hound I…"

"There is a first time for everything, isn't there?" He voice was harsh even as he reached out to gently smooth away a strand of hair off her face. He did not move his hand away, just held her face gently in his large hand and tilted it towards him. "Was not Dontos the first man who kissed you?" he asked.

She gazed at him. Somehow the way his callused thumb was grazing soft circles on her cheekbone was making her chest ache, making her eyes burn with hot new tears. His face was terrible; nothing would ever make it less so. But ever since her kindly father was killed it was only this man, large and terrifying and rough tongued, who had touched her with some level of gentleness. Not the other knights with their pretty words, empty eyes, and brutal blows. Her eyes strayed to his lips, full and smooth on one side and scarred on the other. "You're too tall for me," she found herself saying, her voice a whisper.

"Aye, I've heard that before," he agreed. He slowly got down on his knees before her.

Sansa looked at her hand still on his shoulder. At how small and white it looked against the grey of his tunic. She smoothed it across his shoulder to his neck, remembering another time when he had crouched before her to frighten her. It seemed to her that was so long ago, that it had happened to a different Sansa. Bracing herself for it she looked down into his eyes, truly looked into them for the first time. The shifting silence of the godswood cocooned them, safe from the world outside.

Finally she cupped his cheek, the unscarred one. She leaned forward, slowly, haltingly, and placed her lips against his. It was a soft kiss, just a gentle touching of skin against skin. He was so different from Ser Dontos. His lips were dry and firm. He even smelled different. A heady masculine scent and spiced wine.

After a short moment his hand was in her hair and he was pulling her away.

"Thank you, little bird," he rasped solemnly, his hot breath brushing her lips.

He got to his feet then, avoiding her gaze. She watched as he gathered his things. There was a strange hollow sense of loss deep within her chest.

When he was gone she stood alone for a while, trying to understand it.


End file.
